


The Wolf

by Lochinvar



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Blades, Animals, Ash mentioned, Awesome Sam, BAMF Sam, Between Seasons 7 and 8, Big Brother Dean, Brothers, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Car Accidents, Cartels, Cheeseburgers, Crime Fighting, Dean mentioned, Dogs, F/M, Fixing the Canon, Gangs, Gen, Guns, Harm to animals mentioned, Hostage Situations, Hunter Retirement, Hunters & Hunting, Impala, Killing, Major Character Undeath, Major Original Character(s), Military Backstory, No Sex, No Smut, Not Really Character Death, Original Character(s), POV Original Character, POV Outsider, Pie, Police, Protective Sam Winchester, References to Drugs, Sam Misses Dean, Sam-Centric, Scars, Season/Series 08, Shooting Guns, Shooting Range, Tattoos, Texas, Texas Rangers, Werewolves, Wisconsin - Freeform, animal abuse mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-31 23:12:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3996766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lochinvar/pseuds/Lochinvar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam was with Amelia Richardson between seasons seven and eight, he made a friend: a police chief named Jeff Wagner. This is how Jeff saw Sam during those months. Meanwhile, Sam learned about a new class of monsters. Even though he is out of the family business, he gets to show off his awesome hunter skills and maybe something more. Dean is mentioned, but not around.</p><p>Warnings: Rated Teen or up for mentions of crime, violence, drugs, premarital sex if you squint, and non-graphic references to dogfighting, puppy mills, and other forms of animal abuse. Some mention of police work and guns. Violence consistent with series norms. Erring on the safe side. </p><p>Apologies for some minor slippage from Supernatural canon. Profuse apologies to Texas and Mexican law enforcement, plus the fine people of Kermit and Winkler County, Texas for my presumptions.</p><p>Please see notes.</p><p>This is an installment from my ongoing interest regarding how other people see Dean, Sam and the family business, particularly civilians and strangers.</p><p>Own nothing; rely on the kindness of strangers.</p><p>Ode to Texas, cops, Sam, people who rescue animals.</p><p>[Minor edits - November 18, 2015]</p><p>[Minor edits - August 28, 2016]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Raylan and Boyd and Jeff

Jeff Wagner had been on the job in Milwaukee for thirty years, the son and brother of cops. He retired with one broken marriage, two purebred German Shepherd rescues (Raylan and Boyd), three rock-solid grown daughters, four grandkids, one impeccable reputation as a hard ass with integrity, and 24 functioning firearms.

Tired of brutal Wisconsin winters, he headed south, where he applied for and accepted the position of the Chief of Police of Kermit, Texas.

Kermit was and is an aging oil boomtown in the Permian Basin, surrounded by a semi-arid wasteland populated by countless pump jacks, which resemble hungry visitors from another planet, particularly in moonlight.

Jeff liked the town, and he liked the people. He wanted to make a difference in people’s lives but without the burden of battling Milwaukee’s relentless urban poverty and crime, although Texas and nearby New Mexico had their own ways of making life interesting for law enforcement.

As a bonus, no one told him that Texas had a sizable German-American population and that chicken-fried steak actually was the same wiener schnitzel that he grew up on in Milwaukee.

He bought a house with a big backyard for a fraction of what it would have cost him in Milwaukee. He could bank his pension from Wisconsin for retirement, and he could feel the Texas sun burn the memory of the bitter Midwestern cold from his bones.

Raylan and Boyd were purebred littermates, huge German Shepherds dumped at the local animal shelter in Milwaukee County for behavioral problems, which meant that they were bored, in Jeff’s opinion. He had a long, one-sided talk with them the day he pulled them from their shared cage and took them for an endless walk along Lake Michigan’s blustery shoreline.

Here’s the deal, he told them. You might be smarter, but I have car keys, opposable thumbs, and credit cards, and I know how to use a can opener.

The three were best friends from then on. When he was put on a desk towards the end of his time in Milwaukee, he brought them to work. In his spare time, he trained them, which he claimed involved the three of them watching agility competitions on the Animal Planet network.

Some dogs are motivated by food; others are prey-driven, which means they love their toys. These boys loved people and just wanted to have fun. Smart and goofy. Total sweethearts; too nice for police work and not compulsive enough for rescue or tracking. A bit too high energy for therapy dogs. But they adored children and cheerfully would tolerate abuse from toddlers, puppies, kittens, and ducklings.

Jeff also was smart, and, if you squinted, you could see his goofy side as well.


	2. The Impala Dude

The new veterinarian, Amelia Richardson, an attractive brunette with sad eyes, caught his attention early on. Yeah, she was young enough to be his daughter, but Jeff was tall and blue-eyed, with ramrod posture, blond hair streaked with silver, and killer cheekbones. He still fit into his high school ROTC uniform and skied the black diamond runs up at Steamboat Springs.

He knew she was a modern war widow, with a husband MIA. Lived out of a motel room. Was well thought of by local ranchers, who said she was quiet and efficient. She did not shirk from the more tasking routines of large animal medicine. Kept to herself mostly, and maybe bought a tad too much liquor for someone her age living alone. Raylan and Boyd adored her (and her bottomless jar of homemade dog cookies at the front counter of the clinic).

But before he could make his move, the tall guy showed up.

By the end of his first week in town, everyone knew him, the stray dog he hit, and his vintage car, thus his nickname, Impala Dude. Longish hippie hair (everything longer than a butch cut reeked of dopester to Jeff), slanted eyes that shifted from moss to amber at dusk, and skin the color of rich coffee cream. 6’5” barefoot in old jeans and garage band t-shirts.

According to a bevy of small town gossips, which kept Jeff in the loop better than the paid informants he had worked with on West National in Milwaukee, Impala Dude could fix just about anything. He was trading out rent plus pocket money at the motel in exchange for maintenance work. Spent time at the Winkler County Library focused on his laptop and reading “real” books (as one snoop put it) when he wasn’t working out on a makeshift assemblage of bars and ropes he had cobbled together at the far end of the motel parking lot. (The nearest real gym was a town or three over.) Running early in the morning every day and shopping at Lowe’s, where it was reported he mostly bought vegetables and chicken breasts.

Friday nights, however, he was a regular at the local drive-in. He would walk over from the motel and purchase a double bacon cheeseburger with fries. He would be seen eating slowly, eyes closed, on a nearby park bench, as if he were indulging in a pagan ritual where the drippy delicacy was the sacrifice. Afterwards, he would buy a small, fried pie, the kind that came in apple or cherry flavors, and a small carton of milk, and then walk back to the motel, nibbling at the greasy crust and sipping cold milk until the pie was gone.

His Impala, circa 1967, a work of art, was in mint condition. He washed and waxed it frequently. He also covered it with a fitted canvas tarp to protect the glossy finish from local dust-laden winds, which could scour paint from tractors down to the bare metal. Was why even prosperous communities in the region looked worn and tired.

Took Jeff a couple of weeks to figure out Impala Dude had moved in with Amelia, but he couldn’t help keeping an eye on her. A few weeks later they rented a little yellow clapboard fixer-upper, and the black Impala moved into an oversized garage it shared with Amelia’s pick-up truck. The Dude still fussed over its paint job and kept the tarp in place. He still walked alone over to the drive-in every Friday for his weekly burger and pie.

Impala Dude started helping out with the veterinary practice as well as keeping his maintenance job with the motel. Stories percolated through the community about his carrying Travis Grubbs’ 200-pound injured mastiff from the owner’s house to the vet clinic’s van a block away; the poor dog was frozen in terror by the violent thunderstorm that raged above their heads. Or when the man's sheer size intimidated Miss Edna’s notorious psycho Applehead Blue Point Siamese into cowering submission. The overweight cat usually required Amelia, two strong vet techs, and enough sedatives to knock out a grown Victoria Hereford in order to complete the simplest procedures.


	3. The Shooting Range

The Kermit police department was using a shooting range set up in another county, but Jeff knew he needed something better.  
  
The best local shooting range was in Midland. That's where he found himself side-by-side with Impala Dude in a small auditorium, watching a PowerPoint presentation and listening to a thin, dark-haired woman recite statistics about firearm accidents. The strict rules on orientation at the range meant everyone, even Jeff, had to sit through a basic gun safety training session and take a written test. The tall kid took notes and paid serious attention, but telltale callouses and scars on his giant hands hinted that he could have taught the class.

“Much experience?” asked Jeff.

“Some,” said Impala Dude. “Been a while.” 

Jeff reached out his hand. 

“Jeff Wagner.”

“Sam Winchester.”

His grip was firm and dry, but like many big men, he went out of his way to buffer the impact of his size and strength.

Jeff guessed that the real Sam was in hiding and that there were few places where that Sam could feel safe revealing himself without worrying about physically hurting other people.

So, this Aw Shucks Sam maintained eye contact and ducked his head slightly: the shy affect of someone who could have picked Jeff up and thrown him through the nearest window. Well, Jeff still had a few moves. But the chief had seen Sam washing and waxing the black car behind the motel and working out on his homemade jungle gym. Under loose-fitting, short-sleeved t-shirts, impressive muscles rippled.

After class, they hung around with the small crowd of men and women who were waiting for their tests to be graded and their membership cards to be issued onsite. 

Sam sat in a corner chair, long legs tucked in, hunched over a cup of free coffee dosed with flavored creamer and sugar. Jeff mingled easily, his uniform a magnet for other law enforcement officers. The locals asked what it was like giving chase on interstates and state highways frozen into skating rinks and debated the merits of Wisconsin beer, Wisconsin sausage, and Wisconsin football relative to Texas counterparts. Exchanged business cards and promised to follow up on offers of javelina hunts. 

Jeff’s name was called, and then Sam’s, and they walked together into the indoor range.

The choice of a gun says everything about the shooter. Sam’s Taurus PT92 was no nonsense. Obviously, the gun and the man were old friends.

Jeff was and is a very good shot. He was the point man for meth house raids for a few years, and although it broke his heart every time, he was the one who had first call to nail the rotties and pitties that drug makers would sic on him and his team as they barreled through front doors–with no idea what they were going to find on the other side. The dogs were abused and mean. Had he believed in such things, Jeff would have called them demonic. He would down each dog with one shot to the head and keep moving. 

His ex-wife always knew when this happened during a shift. Jeff would lavish extra hugs and treats on their own dogs when he came home, and not speak to her or their girls for a day, just play with the dogs, drink, and sleep. 

But Sam was something else. Even with the range’s rules against rapid fire, he quickly punched a daisy-shaped wound into the regulation image’s torso. Jeff wondered who, or what, Sam was thinking about when he laid down the pattern as precisely as any programmed laser. Or sci-fi killer robot. Jeff decided Sam was not showing off, but repeating some training exercise he had learned long ago.


	4. With Oak Clusters

Afterwards, Jeff asked Sam out for coffee and a bite to eat before driving back to Kermit. Midland had a real steak house, with white tablecloths and a wine list, a change from a steady, albeit tasty, diet of Tex-Mex and smokehouse BBQ.

Jeff admitted to finishing on the Dean’s list at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee in sociology and hiding his college degree (and his top ranking at the police academy) from the old-timers on the force the first few years on the job. He also admitted that he was an adrenaline junkie who loved driving fast, a boyish perk of cophood. He had been in the Coast Guard reserve in Wisconsin–Lake Michigan being considered the most dangerous of the Great Lakes–and had his share of rescue and enforcement on and in the water as well.

He told Sam about crashing into the side of a building after being shot one late night while riding along with a rookie on a training run. They had interrupted a burglary in progress at a suburban jewelry store after hours. He was clinically dead for 30 minutes at the hospital and had floated above the emergency room gurney, watching a desperate ER team try over and over to bring him back. They weren’t going to let a cop die on their watch, they told him later.

After he pulled away from the white light and returned to his body (and woke up from his coma a week later), he was able to verify what he had seen with the medical team members, details he would have learned only while floating ceiling high above the gurney. 

Jeff said that he did not come back 100%, having lost a legendary capacity to remember the smallest details from decades-old cases. The experience humbled him. 

Sam told Jeff he had been in the military, seen several tours of duty and his share of hands-on combat, caught some action that had resulted in a constellation of interesting scars and a dose of PSTD, reluctantly signed up for disability, and had drifted around for a while, taking on odd jobs for spending money. Few details. But he was looking to settle down. Already had a college degree, liked school. Once upon a time wanted to be a lawyer, but was thinking more about becoming a college teacher in the social sciences: cultural anthropology, linguistics, ancient history. Had been checking out e-learning programs at the University of North Texas up in Denton.

Volunteered things were good between him and Amelia.

Sam’s late brother Dean had been his only remaining family; had meant the world to Sam. His death was the most traumatic event in his life, more so than his time in Iraq and Afghanistan. Dean raised him when his father’s mental health went south after their mother’s death from a house fire. Dean caught the crossfire in a drug deal gone bad, he said; big brother was just an innocent bystander. The black Impala had belonged to him. Told stories about his late brother’s adventures in bars from Bellingham to Boca Raton, often featuring bacon cheeseburgers and pie.

Later Jeff would look him up online, of course. The info was a little sparse, but it was all there, including a Purple Heart, with oak clusters. 

_[A little something Ash added to his online profile and the military database he had hacked; knew it would smooth things for Sam someday, somewhere. And from Ash’s point of view, it was not a lie. When Sam asked what kind of wounds earned him the medal (with oak clusters), Ash said that something large blew up. More than once. Would explain a fraction of the scars on the hunter’s body, he reminded Sam. Too bad the award’s parameters did not include “being attacked by blood-thirsty mythological beasts with fangs and claws”.]_

Satisfied, Jeff did not search further for Sam’s bona fides but did start inviting him to the Thursday night spaghetti diners at the American Legion hall and gifted him with a membership to the local VFW. They would meet for coffee, once a week.

Jeff and Sam found much in common: a rare combination of book and street smarts, competence under fire, quirky senses of humor, a gentleness that belied their skills with weapons, and a strong affection for dogs and Texas barbecue. Unbeknownst to each other, they also, like many good people who take on hard jobs, shared a predisposition for heart-pounding nightmares. One reason Jeff’s wife had called it quits. 

Wondered to himself if Sam would be interested in becoming a cop. Thought it would be good to pass on what he knew to a younger smart kid, sort of a legacy. Planned to mention it when something opened up.

Once in a while Jeff saw Sam and Amelia at the Italian restaurant in Pecos, eating pretty good lasagna and drinking pretty good merlot. Sam looked happy.


	5. Operation Trickster

Jeff’s load in Kermit was light compared to the 24/7 circus that had been Brew City. His first order of business was to improve each employee’s skills and do a little team building with a series of training sessions. He attended every event, front and center, along with the greenest recruit. 

Blowing up things in the field is always cool, as is practicing defensive driving on open fields big enough to reveal the curvature of the earth, playing out Mad Max fantasies at the Mach One speeds normal to Texas highways. But the department really bonded over the annoying orientation session for the annoying new computerized phone system taught by an annoying geeky college kid. Kept everyone laughing for weeks.

Jeff also worked to improve neglected relationships with local and state government agencies, making friends with Fire and the EMTs in the adjoining counties. Hosted meetings with state CID specialists who shared scary Mexican cartel info and demonstrated protocols in situations where evidence was to be collected, and what if your technicians could not get to the crime scene fast enough, and massive floods or fires were headed your way? 

Jeff knew he was accepted when he was invited to join a task force regarding a nearby confluence of bad guys and bad behaviors involving gun running, cooking meth, the sex trade, the heroin trade, and dog fighting. Jeff felt highly motivated to find a tall oak tree and a new rope. 

The task force commanders decided to sweep up the trash, so to speak, and had set a date. Jeff stopped by the vet clinic for a private chat with Amelia and Sam.

Amelia was part of an elite group of veterinarians, law enforcement officers, state ag inspectors, private and public shelter directors, and professional dog handlers. She would be responsible for assembling the team to deal with the dogs and other animals that would need help after the intervention, as Jeff liked to call it. They would work with a half-dozen agencies to coordinate the humane rescue efforts.

The veterinarian had previous experience working with law enforcement on animal abuse issues. Just out of vet school she had accompanied police on domestic violence interventions and saw how the same people who beat their spouses, partners, roommates, and children used hurting and killing beloved pets as a preferred method for blackmailing and punishing family members. 

Amelia had studied the papers published on the relationships between violence against people and critters. She subsequently had worked in states where veterinarians were required to report animal abuse, both as the breaking of laws and as a marker for potential or existing domestic abuse. At least Texas vets were afforded civil immunity to encourage reporting. 

Most everyone on her team who was signing on for Raid Day had previous experience. Amelia allowed only a limited number of newbies: mostly veterinary school seniors and residents looking for hard-core experience. Retired military K-9 handlers and county animal shelter volunteers would join the degreed professionals and animal control officials at the clinic on the designated day, bringing vans filled with pet carriers, food, water, and medical supplies.

The animal rescue team would not know in advance when Operation Trickster would be triggered or where exactly it would occur. The morning of the event an encrypted computer system, generating online texts and robo-calls with coded messages, would alert a hundred people in seconds.

Included in the notifications were a couple of experienced media teams, invited to create a formal video record for the courts and for training rescue teams in the future. A cleaned-up version, used for community education and fund-raising, would be shared among the institutional partners.

At first, she did not want to involve Sam in the raid. He was such a sweet guy. In the dynamics of their relationship, she often was the older, protective sister. She was afraid that the gut-wrenching sight of animal abuse would trigger him and bring back the deep sadness he had brought to their relationship. It had begun to diminish, like waves retreating into the depths after an ocean storm. He could stay home, hold down the office, cook her dinner on her return, scrub her down in the shower, comfort her with his broad, gentle hands, and help her forget the day.

But he reminded her that he had seen as bad, or worse, in his time in the military. And he had survived war zones and firefights. Had a cool head in emergencies.

Just maybe, he said with a wry smile, I am not the clumsy kid you think I am. 

Oh, you are not clumsy. Not at all. She shivered slightly and grinned at him, a sweet private moment.

Get a room, said Jeff. He didn’t think they heard him.

Jeff agreed with Sam. He trusted him to be able to deal with whatever the situation threw at him. He liked the idea that someone with size and skill with a piece would be on Amelia’s team, even if relegated to cuddling frightened puppies and helping to bust open cages that were rusted shut, a sorry task when said cages contained a mix of the living and the dead. 

Unlike Amelia, the police chief was not fooled by long hair and soft words.

Jeff would handle the introduction for the humane intervention team on Raid Day, which was pretty much a Come-to-Jesus talk about staying the hell out of the way until task force law enforcement–basically a militarized SWAT team–rounded up, well, everyone in the vicinity. Not many innocents would be caught in the net.

Then, Amelia’s group could move in and conduct the happy/sad triage of which animals could be saved (the veterinary equivalent of a MASH unit was to be set up immediately) and which would need to be mercifully put down. 

The no-kill and low-kill shelter representatives would cherry-pick the pups most likely to be “rehomed” quickly, while some of the more fanatic–in a good way–rescue groups would remove the more problematic candidates for potential rehabilitation. (Animal behaviorists and dedicated amateurs had demonstrated for years that rehab was possible for many fighting dogs.) Volunteers armed with chip readers would screen for stolen pets. There would likely be unfortunate cats, rabbits, and smaller pets used as bait animals that would need help as well. Being Texas, there also would be a high probability of legal and illegal exotics. Wild animal sanctuaries as far away as Florida and Oregon had been alerted.

_[There was a time not so long ago when the two main factions–animal welfare folks and animal rights folks–weren’t speaking civilly, and the professionals and amateurs treated each other with benign contempt. This reflected decades of bad feelings and colliding theologies of what constituted best practices when dealing with abused domesticated, agricultural, and wild animals–starting with what constitutes abuse. Those arguments still rage.]_

_With the Internet supporting the free exchange of information, the converging of philosophies, and the documenting of the success of joint operations, century-old feuds among animal helpers were ending. And they bonded over a shared hatred of those who sponsored dog fights, which implied they also stole dogs, overbred dogs, and tortured dogs. Only the serial puppy and kitten mill owners (the ones who _repeatedly_ were shut down only to move to a new state), the people who trafficked in the horse and pet meat trade, and the sick and greedy who made unspeakable films of animals being tortured and killed, ranked slighter higher on the list of all-time villains among people devoted, one way or another, to the better treatment of animals._

When Amelia began to educate Sam, he thought that perhaps the hunter community had a whole new set of victims to protect and a new set of targets to…Threaten? Intimidate? Torture? The rules said the perps were human, technically, and thus immune to killing. Sam knew he would figure it out and meanwhile could do some good, starting with the raid.

\-------

Operation Trickster was set in motion. Jeff, as was his custom, went to bed early and was awakened by vivid bad dreams before the alarm. He took a long shower at 4 am and changed into his working clothes at home, slightly self-conscious in armor and high-grade electronics. (Texas lawmen loved their toys, and the taxes from oil revenues ensured his department was well stocked.)

The first part of the operation went off without a hitch. At a dozen different locations across the Basin the targets were taken down, strangling a major drug pipeline from Mexico up to Denver. Jeff also got to see some Texas Rangers in action, and yes, he was impressed. Did not catch any of them kill a grizzly bare-handed or walk on water, but pretty close.

The animal rescue? Not so good.


	6. The Light

Four of the suspected cartel members hid in a shed at the encampment where the fighting dogs and bait animals were warehoused among a messy array of neglected outbuildings and rusty equipment. They had grabbed a vet student and two elderly volunteers as hostages after putting bullets in a uniformed deputy and one of the video camera operators.

Jeff was closest when the trouble hit and raced to the scene. He learned that Sam had dodged bullets and pulled/carried the wounded out of range. Amelia and two of the Texas A and M veterinary school seniors were able to stabilize them, stuff them into a van, and roar off to the nearest hospital.

_[Modern veterinarians receive the same high-level education as do so-called “real” doctors, except vets are trained across multiple species. Your vet probably could treat you as well as your human physician does for most ailments; don’t tell anyone I said so.]_

Sam had given orders to the more competent volunteers–the ones who were not screaming in terror–and made sure they kept everyone else back to the road, even though the barking of frantic dogs were siren calls to the animal lovers gathered to help. 

Suddenly, a grey shape bolted from the shed where the hostages were being held. Through the thick clouds of yellow dust kicked up by the fleeing team members, Jeff saw an impossibly big pale grey wolf - maybe 250 pounds? - racing towards Sam, who was standing at the edge of the property. Sam crouched slightly, like an outfielder waiting for the batter to swing. 

It was bigger than a buffalo wolf, even bigger that the extinct dire wolves that Jeff had seen as a kid portrayed in museum dioramas.

Jeff watched the beast flash by within range, and he emptied his clip into the it’s head and flank. It did not miss a step; in fact, it seemed to speed up. Adrenaline high? Jeff started to reload, hoping the animal would realize it was dead (an old, bad cop joke) and fall. But for some reason it had not gotten the message. 

The dust settled, and he felt a familiar tug to his heartbeat and breath from his own adrenaline high. His time/space continuum changed speed a la Wayne Gretsky. The world shifted around him and slowed down. The barking and yelling faded into the background. 

Jeff could see the creature more clearly. It was not a wolf, at least, nothing like he had ever seen before.

It was running on long hind legs. The front legs were not touching the ground, looking more and more like arms, and its skull was misshapen, not doglike at all.

And why were its eyes glowing red?

Jeff ran, knowing he would be too late.

Sam did not move out of the path of the oncoming creature. He pulled a long knife out of nowhere, actually more like a long silver dagger (maybe a sword, but Jeff would not admit to himself that was possible), oddly shaped. Like the eyes of the not-wolf, it glowed, but instead of red, it pulsed a cold bluish-white.

With a look on his face dangerously close to delight, Sam waited until the last second and plunged the blade up into the not-wolf’s chest as it leaped to grab his throat. Pure, white light poured out through the eyes and mouth of the creature.

It was the same white light that had called to Jeff as his soul floated over his dead body in the hospital in Milwaukee.

Sam stabbed, swiveled, and flung the bleeding body of the monster across the yard, all in one motion. It writhed and changed into a large, muscular, pale-skinned naked man, covered with intricate tattoos from head to toe. Down and dead, ripped open from sternum to just under the chin.

Through the confusion, the remaining bad guys fled, leaving the traumatized hostages unharmed, but disoriented, talking nonsense about what they saw and heard.

Aw Shucks Sam was replaced by Brilliant Field Commander Sam, who seemed to be able to juggle a hundred details in his head at a time. 

The tall man stayed in his competent, no-nonsense, leadership persona for hours. How did Sam know the proper procedures for bagging evidence and interviewing witnesses? And how did he know the nuances of which agency had which role at a complicated crime scene? Not something you learned in the military as a high-level grunt. Sam was ordering around the Texas Rangers and law enforcement officers from four agencies plus what must have been a battalion of Federales, who showed up to observe and advise. His Spanish was not flawless, but his accent was decent and his manner was respectful. Jeff found himself obeying Sam’s directions without hesitation. 

Operation Trickster finally dispersed. The hostages were picked up by their relatives, all unharmed except for memories that would disturb their dreams for years. Amelia had returned from the hospital. The last van, taking the volunteer vet students back to Texas A and M, left after dark. The injured were safe and doing well. She stayed to help with clean up and then drove back to the house with Sam.

Jeff went home to Raylan and Boyd, who whined in unison when they smelt the gunpowder and sick animal and veterinary chemical smells on his clothing.

The raid had made the international news, and Jeff and his hometown team were busy answering phone calls from local reporters in Japan, Germany, and Brazil. The Internet was buzzing with cellphone clips, shot at a fuzzy, dusty distance by the rescue volunteers. No one had captured the wolf man’s sprint and subsequent transformation; only Jeff had been close enough to see the whole thing. 

The Mexican officials seemed to know the tattooed man and claimed the body to return to their country. Most of the Federales had crossed themselves at the scene as if they were warding off evil. Obviously they knew something that they chose not to share with their American counterparts.

Sam took pictures of the tattoos and looked grim. Made some phone calls when he thought Jeff was not looking or listening.


	7. Resurrection

Jeff stopped by the little yellow rental house a few days later.

Amelia was at the clinic, and Sam was outside in the back, painting the wooden trim on the kitchen’s window screens. He was bare-chested, wearing a pair of worn canvas hiking shorts, soaking up the sun as he worked. He looked up as Jeff approached, for the first time not bothering to hide his real self. Jeff already had seen the hidden Sam–scary strong, scary smart-at the dog fighting compound, facing down a creature that did not exist.  
  
Sam reminded Jeff of a legendary medical examiner he had worked with more than 30 years before.  An old-school, organized crime war, involving mob families from New York and New Jersey, led to the shipping of their victims to Chicago via the old Railway Express. C.O.D. To imaginary people at imaginary addresses. The bodies stacked up, unclaimed. Other agencies were brought in from a 100-mile radius out of four states to help sort through the evidence.

The M.E. was maybe the best in the country. Off-duty cops and lawyers would sneak into courtrooms to hear him testify. The mob bosses respected him. Newspaper reporters trusted him. He had been a professional athlete before entering medical school and carried himself with that physical ease. His employees adored him. He was kind and fearless, a genius who would crack a beer with the street cops after work and talk baseball.

Sam had that same presence.

Jeff looked at the multiple scars covering the younger man’s body and realized that the official description of the wounds Sam received in combat did not explain what he saw. He understood why Sam was never seen in anything but long sleeves, even at noon in the town’s arid heat. 

He wondered what Amelia, who had dealt with her share of animal attacks in her practice as a rural vet, thought when she saw Sam’s naked body for the first time. He wondered what Sam had told her. He was sure Sam lied.

“Wanna beer?” asked Sam.

Sam would have known that Jeff was on duty. But he also knew they both needed something to lubricate what was going to be an interesting and difficult conversation. Jeff nodded. Sam pulled on a shirt, and the two men went into the house, away from prying eyes.

After 20 minutes, Jeff called back to his office and, confirming that things were very slow since the raid–the consensus was that the bad element remaining in the county had either decided to head out or lay low–told his dispatcher that he was going to take a couple of days of vacation from his unused stash and not to contact him unless needed.

Six hours later, Jeff figured that the information Sam gave him regarding the hunter’s life, along with the detailed descriptions of a dozen supernatural species, was enough to close out three dozen cold cases that had haunted him since his earliest days as a rookie in Milwaukee.

Two days later, Amelia’s MIA husband Don showed up. Sam was seen in town briefly, but then was gone for good with the Impala. Jeff understood. In Sam’s line of work, not much room for good-byes.

\--------------------

Don is a good man and quickly found work. Jeff felt him out, but the ex-soldier wanted nothing to do with the police department. 

Jeff assumes Sam is back on the road, killing monsters with silver angel blades. He says it out loud, very fast, three times in a row:

Back on the road, killing monsters with silver angel blades.

Back on the road, killing monsters with silver angel blades.

Back on the road, killing monsters with silver angel blades.

He laughs. Sam had asked Jeff to keep what happened a secret. Who the hell is he going to tell?

About six months later Jeff meets a semi-retired nurse who moves to Kermit to be near grandkids in New Mexico and Texas. Theresa is a widow, ex-military, with coppery skin, an infectious smile, and Elizabeth Taylor violet eyes set off by black curly hair tinged with silver. She has a big white cat named Spike who falls in love with Raylan and Boyd during their very first get-to-know-you visit. It’s mutual.

Jeff figures that he will explain why he decorates his house and property with too many iron horse shoes and bought all his deputies genuine silver badges. Eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks very much for the kudos and comments.


End file.
